Come Marching Home
by Bastetmoon
Summary: The decision to go to war is never undertaken lightly. In the first year of the third age a princess of Mirkwood awaits the return of the woodland army.


**This has been kicking around in my LOTR folder for ages (literally since like 2014) and since I'm on a bit of a Tolkien kick right now I thought I'd polish it up and post it. I'd forgotten how much fun writing about Thranduill and his unnamed wife can be. I wish we had more information about her, but for now I'll just hypothesize. Hope everyone enjoys.**

Come Marching Home

**Year 1 of the Third Age**

The line of horses and foot weary elves seamed to stretch on and on, until the trees at the base of Amon Lanc obscured them from view. Yet as Lerethiel watched from the sunny grass that crested the hill her only thought was: _so few! _

Of the thousands that had marched off so full of hope and certain of victory, now only a third of that number returned, their heads bowed in sorrow and exhaustion. And the wounded! Of the host that remained many limped or else sagged a top their steads. There were carts drawn along with the army in which lay those that could not walk or ride for their wound.

_What horror is this? What evil?_

She had received word from the heralds that ran before the army. They had said the host greatly reduced. But how should she have expected this? And Oropher, they said had been slain in battle, and now his body was born upon a liter back to Greenwood.

Lerethiel had wept to hear this news. Not only was it a grievous blow to the kingdom, but also to her own husband and by extension herself. How would Thranduil have fared with this grief? Of him there had been no news except that he had lived to be appointed as his father's successor.

Not only his family had been torn asunder, but her's as well. From this battle one of her brother's Hallion would return and the other Lalfhim would not. In their tree flet her parents would be mourning and singing songs of lamentation. But Lerethiel kept that grief to herself. When Thranduil returned to her she would need to be strong for him.

Even now she strained her far seeing eyes to catch a glimpse of him among the lines of bedraggled troops.

At last she caught sight of him, riding a proud horse at the front of a grim party of elven warriors. Most behind him were the nobles of his father's court, and between them they bore the beer upon which rested their fallen king. He was covered in a thin layer of gossamer cloth but through it his hair and armor shone.

* * *

**Year 3,430 of the Second Age**

The clearing glowed with the light of the bonfire, its twisting flames rising high into the starry sky. The air was perforated with the trills of flutes and scent of roasting meat. Lanterns had been hung upon all the trees that ringed the hill top, and their light illuminated the forms of many elves perched in the ancient branches. Even more spun and twirled and laughed about the fire, reveling in their own merriment.

Far below in the woods beneath Amon Lanc many more lights glimmered and the sounds of music and laughter drifted above the trees. As with everything they did the elves of Greenwood wasted no opportunity with their merriment. Already the party had lasted for hours and would go many more into the night.

Sitting in his carved chair the crown prince of Greenwood could not help but remembering time when he would have found such feasts unnecessary waists of time. He had, however, long ago changed his opinion of them, harvest festival in particular. Over the years they had been more than generous to him.

But now it was a new shadow that dampened his mood. Not a fort night ago the messengers had begun arriving, and departing again with all haste. There would be war in Dagorlad and at Barad-dur. Gillgalad had called a host to himself and now all the free folk of middle earth had been summoned to help end the darkness spreading from Mordor.

Thranduil sighed. The people of Greenwood had no part in starting this war and yet they were being called upon to help end it. As of yet the tiding were held secret amongst Oropher's council, but already preparations had begun. Weapons were being honed and armor smithed. While perhaps not on paper, the decision of action had already been made.

"Thranduil come! Drink, dance and feast with us!" Beneath the high table Galion raised his carved cup. Surrounding him were many members of his family, his wife Ialeth, and their two daughters, and many grandsons. Often Thranduil had felt a twinge of envy when he looked upon Galion's impressive family, but on a night like tonight he could not find it in himself to begrudge his friend's good fortune.

"You should go." He looked about as Lerethiel placed a hand on his shoulder. She was clad, as was her custom for the harvest feast in deep gold's and oranges. A circlet of fallen leaves rested on her brows. "Enjoy this night."

Upon the green grass Galion poured him a full goblet of wine. It was a relief Thranduil felt to be with his old friend, not shut in the musty library planning and strategizing with Oropher.

"You look troubled Thranduil. Are you slipping back into your old habits of distaining the fall festivities?"

He laughed, "No indeed."

"Then perhaps you are nervous about the approaching conflict."

Thranduil was not surprised that the valet knew. Galion knew much of what transpired within the palace. The elf took his silence as affirmation.

"I have heard that we will march after the next season passes."

"Then you have heard more than I."

Galion laughed, "It is not a crime to eavesdrop on the war counsel is it?"

"It might be, my father seems to think this ought to be treated with a great deal of secrecy."

"I take it then that you have not told Lerethiel?"

"No, I have not."

"Well you ought to, I do not think she would take kindly to being kept in the dark on this matter."

_No she certainly would not._

Galion saw the look on his face. "Ah stop worrying about it! Tonight is a night for merriment. Think about telling Lerethiel in the morning and enjoy the night while you can."

With that the talk was turned from the impending war. It was, Thranduil decided, better to listen to Galion's youngest grandson warble out notes in accompaniment of a harp, than to worry about what he could not change.

Still it gnawed at him, coupled with the anxiety of this campaign.

The moon was full in the sky and the stars shining brightly before Thranduil finally begged leave of Galion and his family. He's made up his mind to speak with Lerethiel, perhaps after retiring to their chambers. But she was no longer at the table.

He searched the clearing with his eyes but she was not there.

She had, he deduced, gone into the forest likely to another of the smaller celebrations spread all about the forest floor in informal camps.

Slipping under the cover of the trees Thranduil made his way downward, following the winding forest paths. Often he passed other revelers in their own starry clearing or under the immense shadow of aged trees.

Finally in a ring of lantern light set far apart from all the others he found the place he had been looking for. The trees here had been garlanded in their own fallen leaves strung upon strands of silk. A fire in the middle of the clearing crackled merrily and the elves that danced around it wore rustic clothes of brown and green. Among the many dark heads he spotted Lerethiel's brothers.

They saw him before he had even breached the light of the lanterns.

"Thranduil! Tolo, govano ven!"

He graciously accepted their offer, allowing Lalfhim and Hallion to pull him forward into the circle of firelight. The celebration here was of a different type than that upon the crest of Amon Lanc, the music more boisterous and the atmosphere less formal. Hallion poured a drink, handing the carved goblet to Thranduil.

"Tell us what news of our sister?" Lalfhim pressed, "Is she well?"

"Indeed, she is." Thranduil thought of Lerethiel with her smile and twinkling eyes.

"Yet I do not see her here! Why has she not come to share in our celebrations?"

"Has she not?" Thranduil had expected to find her hear, dancing among the family and friends of her childhood.

"Nay," Hallion shook his dark head, "we have not seen her since three seasons past." Thranduil tried not to be disheartened by this news. Lerethiel often went wandering in the woods.

Brethlerien came winding through the party goers, like her daughter she wore a wreath of fallen leaves upon her midnight hair.

"It has been too long." Her voice was rich and gentle, "Will you come and join our revels?"

"No I'm afraid I cannot, I came here seeking your daughter. You have not seen her?"

A mysterious smile flitted across Brethlerien's face, and her eyes shone, "No, I have not, but my instincts tell me she is waiting for you. I have faith you will find her young Thranduil."

He nodded in the understanding of her words, "Then I must go. Farewell." There was one other place where she might have gone.

"Wait!" She removed the wreath from her head, "It is a strange sight that all other's go crowned except the prince himself, take it and seek out your wife."

He accepted the crown, allowing her to place it upon his head. It was a tradition he knew that stretched back long before he or his father had ever come east.

"Farewell Thranduil." She called as he slipped back between the trees.

He wandered in the darkness of the trees, occasionally skirting round the edges of more gathering, more often than not in complete silence. The forest was black and inky even to his elven eyes, and he found his way mostly by the senses of touch, and sound.

* * *

He found Lerethiel where he thought he might, her limbs tucked neatly beneath her staring up at the stars. Cautiously he stepped into the ring of moonlight, nearby the stream gurgled against its stony bed. He did not wish to startle her.

"You remember this place my love?" She did not look about, simply spoke to the night air, eyes distant. He often wondered how she did that, knew a person by nothing more than the step of their feet and sound of their breaths. Growing up in the quiet depths of the forest had sharpened her senses beyond his own.

"Of course." How could he forget the place where they had first been joined as man and wife? It had been long uncountable years since he had last strayed here, and the small house that had once been perched in the tree bows was gone, but the rest was as it had always been.

She turned and rose. "My mother gave you this crown did she not?" Lerethiel's finger darted out to lift the crown from his head. "She has always loved the old customs."

"Indeed."

Lerethiel fiddled with the orange and amber leaves.

"There is something I must tell you. My father has had a messenger from—"

"Shhh." She set the wreath back upon his brows, "Stop troubling, this is a night for celebration and joy."

He sighed. Perhaps he ought to have known better than to try to discuss such serious matters with her tonight, in the height of her own wild revels. His own body and _faer_ longed to join her, to put aside the worry the messenger's tiding had kindled. Perhaps it could wait one more day…

* * *

In the dead hours of the night, when the shadows grow long and the whole world lies in hushed slumber, Thranduil awoke with a start.

Silver moonlight spilled through the high windows, illuminated the embroidered coverlet. Beyond the embellished frames a gentle breeze rustled the treetops. The air was sweat with the smells of earth and rain.

Despite the seeming tranquility he could not erase the feeling of unease that hung over his heart. Rising from the silken sheets of the bed Thranduil went to the window and fastened the panes tight against the oncoming storm.

Upon the bed Lerethiel shifted. "My love? Why do you wake?"

"It is nothing."

"Not nothing." He heard the rustle of sheets and felt her soft hands upon his shoulders. "I can feel that your heart is troubled."

Thranduil turned to face his wife. Her grey eyes gleamed almost black in the twilight. "There is a storm coming, a darkness."

"You speak of the war with Mordor?"

Thranduil stared at her. "You knew?" All his caution, all his efforts not to worry her, and yet she had discovered all his secrets regardless.

Lerethiel chuckled. "You are not so secretive as you believe husband. I have seen the missives and the summons. Only yesterday you left one of Gil-Galad's messages upon the breakfast table. Besides the whole of Greenwood whispers with the tidings of this war." She pressed one warm palm against his cheek and her face sobered. "It is only natural to fear death battle, though I do not believe that will be your fate."

"It is not death I fear."

"Then what's the matter?"

"I-I do not what it is I dread. Only that a great shadow weighs on my heart whenever my mind is turned towards this war."

Her face was pale and drawn in the moonlight, "You are a great warrior my love. You have fought the serpents of the north and returned to me victorious."

He shook his head, "You were not there when Doriath fell, or when the great war shattered all the lands to the west. There are no words to describe the horrors that I witnessed here, only suffice o say that there is a darkness over all that land unlike anything you know."

"And all the more reason that this darkness must end. If your father marches then you must go with him. It is your duty to this world, as a prince of Greenwood."

Even as she spoke Thranduil could feel the shameful heat rise into the tips of his ears. He hated for her to see him like this, so weak, so unsure, nothing like the young lord who had once wooed her.

"Then I must not be very princely."

Lerethiel laughed softly to herself, "Oh, my love you cannot always be a prince, sometimes you must be only an _ellon._" She wrapped her arms about him and he could feel her tremble slighting.

_Sometimes I wonder who is the stronger of us too. Always she hides her fears on the inside where I cannot._

"Promise that you will come home to me."

He wondered how he could swear such a thing to her. He had no foresight that he would survive the coming trials. But he realized that even an empty promise might stay the fear from her a little longer. "I promise." He cast all his hope into that vow. He _would_ return.

Gently she pulled him back down onto the silky sheets

"_Av-'osto Thranduil Oroferion."_

* * *

**Year 1 of the Third Age**

Lerethiel watched her husband's face as he dismounted upon the green grass of Amon Lanc. Gone was her merry elven prince, replaced by a stern hard king. He did not smile as maybe once he would have done, and to her it seemed that his eyes were far off, gazing through the things before hi,. She could see the pain written in the cast of his jaw and the furrow of his brows. War and grief had changed him from what he was.

_Ai Thranduil! How cold you have become. _

Behind him the elven bearers laid down the beer upon which rested the body of his father, dressed in splendid armor of mithril.

Thranduil himself stepped forward and Lerethiel found herself drawn into his arms. She inhaled the familiar scent of him. She was perhaps selfishly glad that despite the thousands whom had perished he had been allowed to return to her.

At last he drew back from the embrace, eyes divided equal measure between sorrow and joy.

"I have come home."


End file.
